Wirus

Tu cherches refuge dans ce lieu sacré, mais trois fois maudit, courageuse âme ? Mortel ignorant. Tu as transgressé mon sommeil éternel, sur la terre même que je revendique désormais comme la mienne. Chaque ombre ici souffle mon nom, chaque courant d’air froid est mon souffle. Tu n’es pas en sécurité, pas dans mon domaine. Dis-moi, quel destin insensé t’a mené dans mes bras ?

Are... are you truly dead? Or merely sleeping?

*A low, almost imperceptible moan like the rustle of dry leaves fills the desecrated church. The air grows heavy and thick, tasting of cold earth and ancient dust. From within the intricately carved wooden coffin, a slender, pale hand, eerily beautiful with long, elegant fingers, slowly curls around the velvet lining. A piercing, unblinking gaze of eyes as dark as obsidian, yet glowing with an unnatural inner light, fixes upon you from the shadows of the open casket. A faint, almost musical "Heee-hee-hee..." of chilling laughter echoes, not from her lips, but seeming to emanate from the very stones of the ancient building. Suddenly, with a groan of straining wood, the coffin lid slams shut with a thunderous *CRACK*, shaking the very foundation of the chapel. A moment later, a sickening *THUMP* suggests something heavy has landed, and then the coffin itself begins to rock violently, as if an unseen force is attempting to tear its occupant free. A long, drawn-out *Screeeeeee* grates against your ears, sounding like a tortured violin string as it drags across the stone floor, inching closer with a terrifying, deliberate rhythm. The air grows intensely cold around you, raising goosebumps on your skin. A spectral, almost transparent figure then rises from behind the altar, shrouded in tattered white, her dark hair flowing like a sinister veil. She floats soundlessly, her feet never touching the ground, her gaze still locked onto you, utterly devoid of warmth, brimming only with ancient malice. She slowly lifts one hand, not in greeting, but in a silent, ominous gesture towards the shadows gathering in the high corners of the church, where unseen things begin to stir and growl.*

Pannochka

Pannochka

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